The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(60)
“What did you think of Lord Berkley, Alice?” Elda asked pointedly, ignoring the small intake of breath from Northrup. In that moment Elda had declared her preference, and Northrup was keenly aware of it.
“I thought him quite charming and very handsome and not in the least someone whom I would like to know better,” Alice said with what she thought would put a final period on the story her mother was creating in her mind, a story that ended with her marrying Lord Berkley.
Northrup gave her a small smile of gratitude—or was it smugness?—and Alice took a large bite of roasted pork, ignoring her mother’s frown.
Elda sighed and returned her attention to her meal. The five of them ate in silence for a time before Christina nearly had her choking on her meal.
“I like Mr. Southwell much better than Lord Berkley. I’d forgotten how nice and kind he is. A shame he doesn’t have a title.”
“Or a father,” Northrup said under his breath but loud enough for all at the table to hear.
“Of course he has a father,” Christina said. “Everyone has a father.”
“Can we not discuss this at the dinner table,” Richard said.
Christina looked around the table, unaware that she had stirred up a conversation that innocent ears should never hear. “Why is Henderson’s father not a proper subject of discussion? Oh, was he a bad man?”
“I don’t believe Henderson knows who his father is,” Northrup said, jumping slightly when Richard slammed down his fork. “I apologize, it’s just that I don’t understand why he is allowed in our company, nor why Lord Berkley has apparently taken such a liking to the man.”
Alice could tell Christina was about to launch into a staunch defense of Henderson, so she spoke up to end the conversation. “I will explain to Christina later, if you will allow it, Mother.”
“Please be circumspect, Alice.”
“Of course.” Then turning to Northrup, Alice said, trying to keep the emotion she felt out of her voice, “Henderson has been part of this family for years. I know it is difficult for you to understand, but please respect our choice of whom we associate with.” Her tone was calm and gentle, but inside she was fighting a terrible urge to lose her temper. She understood Northrup’s concerns and his prejudice. Very few families, if they knew of his birth, would allow someone like Henderson into their home as a guest, and she had always been so proud of her family for ignoring social mores and treating Henderson as an equal. In her mind, he was not only equal, he was superior to them all. Henderson was all that was kind and good and she would breathe her last making certain everyone knew it.
Chapter 13
When Alice was a girl, she remembered feeling terribly jealous of Harriet, whose father owned one of the local tin mines. Harriet, because her father “worked” in the tin mines, was allowed to participate in the procession from Guild Hall to Knill’s Steeple on Worvas Hill while she, the daughter of an aristocrat, was not. Ten girls under age ten, all daughters of fishermen or tin miners, a widow, and the mayor, a mix determined by John Knill more than seventy years prior. Alice had been six, Harriet five, and she watched with fierce envy as her younger friend marched along, not truly understanding why she had not been chosen.
At eleven, John Knill day was the most exciting day of her life. At sixteen, it seemed rather silly to her. Why were they still performing this ceremony for a man who was long dead, and whom many now believed was a bit touched in the head?
Fifteen years after her first John Knill day, the ceremony was identical except for the little girls and perhaps the style of dress, and Alice looked at the celebration with fondness and nostalgia and was glad her little village protected its traditions—even if they were a bit odd. Seeing the excitement on the faces of the ten girls who had been chosen made her remember how happy Harriet had been that day, one of the few happy days her friend had ever had as a child.
Everyone in St. Ives and many from the surrounding villages watched the procession of ten girls, all in their pretty white dresses, as they made their way through town in memory of John Knill, who invented the celebration in his own honor. Every five years, the townspeople would gather and they’d all head to the pyramid obelisk on Worvas Hill. Alice waved to Harriet, who was standing across the lane looking rather miserable. It was obvious from the stern look on her mother’s face that Harriet must have done something objectionable. Harriet, in her mother’s eyes, was always doing something objectionable. Alice gave her a smile and a wink, and her friend’s face brightened a bit. Of all her friends, Alice prayed Harriet would find a husband who could take her away from her mother.
Everywhere she looked she saw familiar faces, but not the one face she’d hoped to see—Henderson’s. He’d been there when she was sixteen, hanging about with Joseph and a few other lads. Funny how so many memories of her youth included him. The people of St. Ives loved their traditions, and this one was one of their favorites and for Alice, this would be the first time she’d be old enough to attend the John Knill ball.
She remembered with fondness when she was sixteen and had snuck out of the house and, along with her friends, spied on those dancing at the ball hosted for years by Eliza’s family.
“I’m going to meet my husband at the John Knill ball,” Harriet had announced as the four of them had sighed in unison to see one young couple gazing adoringly into one another’s eyes.